Probably more than half, I add.
Elizabeth makes a terrible face at me that lasts one second.
Jim walks up to us. Hey, didn’t you hear me? I want to show you something.
Elizabeth’s mother straightens her back. And you are? she says.
I’m Jim, he says, extending his hand.
My dad, I say.
He looks down at me.
Claire LaFontaine, says Elizabeth’s mother.
You must be Elizabeth, says Jim. I’ve heard a lot about you. To me he says, You should see this old car. I got some great shots, I think. Then he turns to Mrs. LaFontaine. I think there’s something living in it. Seats all tore up.
You don’t say, says Elizabeth’s mother. She often looks like she’s smelling something foul.
Can Elizabeth come study with me tomorrow? I say. At our house?
Don’t see why not, says Jim. But I thought you were going to come shooting with me.
Mrs. LaFontaine’s eyebrow raises.
Photographs, says Jim, holding up his camera. She carts my gear. Strong as an ox, really, for a kid.
I could come! says Elizabeth. I could help, too!
Let’s stick to our studies for now. All right, ladies? says Elizabeth’s mother. I have some business at church in the morning but my husband can bring Elizabeth by at, say, nine o’clock? she says to Jim.
Jim’s mustache twitches and he glances at me. That’ll be swell, he says.
We all say good-bye.
Jim and I walk to his car. He puts his camera back in its bag and I open the glove box. I find a handful of root-beer barrels under the papers and empty cigarette packs. I pile them in my lap and unwrap one.
How come you said that back there? he asks.
Said what?
I stare at my pile of root-beer barrels. I’ve made a sling for them with my skirt. Some coffee nips are in there, too. I have to remember to add hard candy to my list. Jim keeps looking over at me. I don’t know how to explain myself. Suddenly I don’t want candy anymore.
It was a small lie, anyhow. Small lies are venial sins, not mortal. And besides, you are my dad. To me you are. I don’t care what you think. I have to stop because my voice is breaking, so I cross my arms and look out the window.
Jim turns so he’s facing me. Hey, there, whoa. He puts his hand on top of my head. I’m not mad. Know what I really thought?
What? I’m still looking out the window.
I thought, Wouldn’t I be the luckiest guy in the world if this girl was my kid.
I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me smile.
He puts the key in the ignition. I forgot to show you that car back there.
I know.
He pulls out onto the street.
I would still like to help you tomorrow, I say.
It’ll all work out, says Jim.
CHAPTER 16
MOTHER IS BEATING pillows, dusting and straightening knickknacks when we get home.
You having a party? says Jim.
She’s wearing a tan dress, her hair down, no stockings yet. No, silly. If I were having a party, you’d be the first to know. She pats his chest. He stares at her with zero feelings on his face. We just need a good sprucing up before the winter really hits us, she says.
Jim mouths the words Ask her. I follow Mother into the bedroom. She opens a drawer and pulls out one stocking then another, holding them up. She runs her arm into one of them and spreads her fingers. What is it, kitten?
I told Elizabeth she could come over tomorrow. To do homework.
Sounds lovely. Good thing we cleaned up, huh?
Sometimes Mother talks to me like she talks to the crew. I start to leave.
What time? she asks.
Nine.
In the morning?
Is that okay? I say, watching her face, watching all the details get sorted, all the potential problems get visited. I’m tempted to say never mind, but I don’t. I want her to figure it out herself.
Of course, she says, why wouldn’t it be? She pulls a stocking over her foot and slides it on as she raises her leg. We love company, you and me. She snaps the elastic against her thigh. I leave the room.
Did she say yes? asks Jim, waving me to the kitchen table.
I nod.
Sit down, I’ll make you a snack, he says. He puts a tub of oleo and the tin of saltines on the table and lights a cigarette. He mixes me some Ovaltine and pours himself a drink.
Did she say who’s coming over? he asks.
No.
It’s a new dress.
He butters five saltines and puts them on a plate in front of me.
Mother hums in the bathroom.
Quit worrying, says Jim.
This was a terrible idea.
It’s going to be fine. I’ll be here a little before nine.
I nod.
But you’ll owe me, he says.
Okay, I say.
What are you scheming in here? says Mother, appearing in the kitchen, looking around.
You lose something? says Jim.
My cigarettes, she says.
Jim shakes a cigarette out of his pack and holds it out for her. Keep this up and pretty soon you’ll sound just like Louis Armstrong.
He’s famous, isn’t he? she says, leaning over so Jim can give her a light. Then she spins around and sits down on his lap. I feel so happy.
When Mother is happy, I am happy. I don’t even care if it has nothing to do with me. When it’s just the three of us, everything is right.
Jim holds her around the waist and looks as though he’s trying not to breathe.
Tomorrow will be fun, she says to me.
Who’s coming over? I ask.
Your new friend! Elizabeth!
I mean tonight, I say.
Jim looks at me and Mother looks at me. She tilts her head a little bit. Just an old friend. Nobody you know.
David? I ask.
Mother concentrates very hard on putting out her cigarette, tamping and tamping until it breaks.
What’s that? she finally says, hopping off Jim’s lap.
Jim shakes his head.
Mother kisses my cheek. I have to finish putting my face on.
Jim follows her into the bathroom.
I’m not going to discuss this with you, she says.
We’ll see about that, says Jim.
Mother sponges on makeup like he’s not standing there.
Jim stares at her. You only want him because you can’t have him.
How dare you, says Mother as best she can with her lips stretched over her teeth.
You can’t resist a challenge.
That is simply not true! Mother says, trying to hold down her voice like it’s a jack-in-the-box.
After Jim leaves, Mother and I go out to pick up groceries and booze.
Sing with me, Sophia, she says while we walk.
We sing a few bars of “Easter Parade” and a few bars of “I Found a Million Dollar Baby.”
You have a lovely voice, baby, you do, she says. It’s like clean water.
That’s funny, I say, I always say your voice sounds like warm water.
You do? she says. I never knew you thought that. Hunh.
I’m a little out of breath trying to keep up with her.
Of course, don’t think for a single minute I want you to be a singer, she says. It is not an easy life. Boy, if you knew—I’ll tell you someday, I will, and I won’t mince words; I will tell you everything.
Her coat is open and the wind blows it behind her like a cape she doesn’t know she has.
You should button your coat.
Honestly, Sophia, she continues, I don’t care what you do, as long as you have passion.
She holds my hand with both of hers now. But, if you want to know the truth, she says.
I do.
Passion will have you. Because you are just like me. Best to give in, sweetheart, let it take you where it will.
A clus
ter of men passes us on the street. They all look at Mother but she ignores them.
I wish you didn’t worry so much. We’re going to be just fine, don’t you think?
I nod.
I think things are turning around. I have a good feeling, she says. I need to tell you something.
What? I say.
I’m quite certain I’m going to become famous. I can feel it. It’s like it’s happening already but I’m just not aware of it.
I try to imagine what this means but all I can see is even more people in love with Mother. Whole rooms of people looking at her, wanting her to notice them, and me disappearing in all the noise and bustle. Thinking about this makes me want to cry. I try to smile at her because she’s so excited. About the future. But I can’t. She’s not really here any longer. She’s walking down the street like it’s standing in for another street. A future street full of people who can love her better than I.
Then the wind rises and whips at us. Mother tries to gather her hair, which blows around her head, and as she does, she finds a hairpin tangled in the back.
Oh, dear. Help me get this out, she says. Guess I was in a hurry.
She squats in front of me and I use both hands but still, when I finally get it, a few hairs come with it. It’s okay, she says. It didn’t hurt. Thank you, darling. What would I do without you?
I put the hairpin in my pocket.
We eat some dinner when we get home but I can tell that Mother is rushing, dialed to a higher setting.
I get out my homework and spread it on the coffee table.
Kitten, what are you doing?
Math, I say.
What child does math on a Friday night? She looks at her little wristwatch. And besides, it’s almost your bedtime.
I’m not tired, I tell her.
Let’s look at your homework in your room. And get you changed into your pajamas.
I ignore her and focus on my nines. I feel like if I could just memorize my nines, I’d be okay.
Mother makes a drink, stares at me, waiting for me to move to my room. Eventually she leaves.
I can hear her in her room. After a while the apartment gets very quiet and I feel like I’m alone. All she wants is for me to be out of the way. I start to not care if I’m here or not. I pick up my books, go into my room, and think about Elizabeth. Maybe this is why Jim wanted me to make friends. Having a friend makes me want Mother less.
Eventually she comes into my room. How are your numbers coming?
Good, I say.
Can I help you get ready for bed?
I’m not a child.
You are, actually. Now put this on. She hands me my nightgown.
I don’t want to, so I move as slowly as possible. I sit down on the floor, pull my sock off, and study it.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, you test your poor mother’s nerves.
I grab the nightgown from her. I can dress myself! I yell.
She takes a step backward.
I strip the rest of my clothes off, throwing everything this way and that. Then I pull my nightgown over my head and climb into bed.
Mother comes to the bed and tries to touch my hair but I flip over and face the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.
You’ll feel better in the morning, darling. Everything’s always better in the morning.
Mother opens the door and stands there a moment.
I’m here, aren’t I? We’re together, she says.
She shuts the door behind her. I open my eyes and look at the wall—playbills and flyers, photos of Mother, a few little newspaper clippings. Mother, Mother, Mother. I get on my knees and carefully peel off a page, then another and another until I’m just tearing it all down, not even caring that some of the pages rip as I do.
I listen to Mother in the main room, the clink of her glass on the liquor cart. I hear her cross the room—maybe to look out the window. She crosses the room again. She hums for a few seconds then stops. Crosses the room again. It makes me sleepy, the sound of her heels gently batting the floor like a heartbeat that stops, that can’t keep going, that starts up again.
Something wakes me. I sit up and see all my memorabilia on the bed. I wonder if he’s here. I sneak out my door and tiptoe down the hall. I hear something ticking. Mother is on the davenport. Her stockings and shoes are on the floor. On the record player the needle has come to the middle and is bumping against the last black ridge.
I walk in.
Oh, kitten, did I wake you? Come here. Come sit with me. She reaches with her arms and wiggles her fingers.
I get as close to her as I can and put my arms around her waist.
It’s so late, she says.
Her body pulls a little so she can reach her drink and take a sip. I’m sorry we fought.
I don’t say anything.
Sometimes I think we’re just girlfriends. I forget you’re a kid. You’re so grown up. More than me, I think.
I listen to the needle for a long time until I finally get up and return the arm to its little fork.
Oh, no, let’s have a listen, she says.
The album is called Bird and Diz. It’s the one she always listens to when she’s sad.
Thank you, kitten, she says, closing her eyes to the sound of the horns. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? And light?
I start to pick up her stockings.
I used to be innocent, she says.
She raises her arm and waves me to her. Leave that. Come back.
I sit next to her again.
Do you remember the old place? With Sister and Rita?
Yes, I say.
We made a cradle for you out of an orange crate. We were so poor. Rita pulled the fringe off an old flapper number and put it around your crate.
I turn her bracelets around her wrist.
We had so much fun. Hilda made all your little dresses with the matching bloomers.
And the candles, I say, uncertain if I actually remember them or have absorbed the stories.
Oh, when the lights got shut off. Rita had a million candles, didn’t she? And we sang. We sang to you and danced with you. You were a wonderful baby, she says.
The phone rings and Mother jumps, running over to it as fast as she can in the tight dress.
But once she gets there, she just stares at the phone, watching it ring.
Aren’t you going to answer?
She picks up the receiver. Hill residence.
I watch her back. She takes a deep breath.
Oh, I didn’t wait. I just got in, actually, she says. She listens a long time, her head tilted like it’s heavy.
Let’s just nip this in the bud, darling, she says. I mean, how many times do we have to fail at his, huh? I love you. I’m saying good-bye now. She sets the receiver down very carefully, then just stands there staring at it, one hand leaning slightly on the table, the other hand resting on top of the glass paperweight. And somehow, though she’s not moving at all, it seems like there’s a storm brewing inside her, like something is winding up tight. All of a sudden she lifts the glass paperweight and hurls it against the wall as hard as she can. I cover my head. She hits her fist into the wall several times and begins to cry. Fuck you, she is saying, over and over.
I feel I should stop her but don’t know how. This one is new. Jim would know but he’s not here. I think and think about what I can say or do that might help her, bring her back, but I know there’s nothing to do but wait. Whatever could help Mother isn’t inside of me. It’s someplace else. I don’t even know where.
She stops hitting eventually and presses her forehead against the wall. When she turns around and sees me, I see that she’s forgotten I’m in the room.
Don’t be afraid, darling, she says, bending over to collect her stockings and shoes.
I’m not, I say.
She just stands there holding her things, her stockings hanging down like streamers after a party.
Let’s get you back to bed.
She climbs into bed with m
e and sings little made-up songs, her face close to my hair. “The little sleep bug is on his way again, he’s coming round the bend again. Just you wait and see. He’s bringing sleep for you and me.” When she thinks I’m asleep she whispers, I hope you have it easier, kitten. I did everything the hard way.
Naomi
CHAPTER 17
KANSAS, 1954
THE NIGHT I ran away from home, Sister and I drove for hours. It was past midnight when we knocked on the front door of her convent but several nuns were awake and dressed, standing in the entry when we arrived as though they knew we were coming. They were clearly happy to see Idalia, some of them even cried a little. I realized they hadn’t seen her in years. All of this they seemed to be trying to hide from their boss, the taller, sterner nun everyone kept an eye on.
Idalia put her hand on my back. This is Naomi.
Well, aren’t you grown up, one of them said. I looked at her and slowly realized it was Sister Therese, the nun I’d been so terrible to.
Sister Therese, I said.
She frowned at me.
Long time no see, I said. Some of the nuns laughed while others scowled at the ones who were laughing.
The boss nun stepped forward, stilling the others.
I’m Sister Anne, Prioress here. Welcome.
Then she turned to Idalia and squeezed her shoulders. Idalia’s head lowered a little, like she was sorry.
A tiny old nun stepped forward, reached up, and put her hands on my cheeks. You’re so tall! she said.
This is Sister Regiswinda, said Sister Anne. She’ll show you to your room.
Sister Regiswinda took my hand and we walked down the hall of the big old house.
Everyone calls me Sister Windy, she said, smiling, her round face squeezed by her coif.
She led me to a small bare room. Are you hungry? she asked.
The question reminded me of my body, the emptiness in my gut, which led me to think of Laura walking away from me, her back, her not turning around.
No, I said, looking at the floor.
Sister Windy took my hands in hers and patted them.
I wasn’t sure if you’d let me in, I said. It’s my fault that Sister—
Sister Windy shook her head no before I could finish my sentence. That’s unrelated.
Last Night at the Blue Angel Page 9
